


Garden of Unearthly Delights and Minor Fuck-ups

by apiphile



Category: The Used
Genre: BDSM, CBT, Challenge Response, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Sensory Deprivation, vicious mocking of own life experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jepha Howard doesn't find what he's looking for at Torture Garden, but fortunately his friends know what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garden of Unearthly Delights and Minor Fuck-ups

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_hive](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shadow_hive).



In Jepha Howard's embarrassingly broad experience, fetish clubs come in 'far too fucking warm' and 'unbelievably cold' without much variation between. Last time he came to this night – Torture Garden, London, expensive and finicky about the dress code – it was the former; a bar with no air-con in August, full of very, very sweaty goths and the roof terrace so packed it was almost worse despite being outside. And he'd gotten laid, which made the experience somewhat worth it, and had even balanced out the weeks and weeks of digs from his band about him coming home at 6am, walking the bandy-legged walk of someone whose ass has been whipped too hard for him to risk normal movement.

So that was, on the balance, okay. Sure, the girl he'd been picked up by last time had a bad case of British teeth and smelled a little bit of gone-off cheese, but you have to take what you can get. Providing 'what you could get' isn't that wheezy bearded guy with the squint and the leather waistcoat, because god-fucking-damn-it, he has standards.

This time it's in some spooky-assed tunnels by a railway station that look like some kind of Jack the Ripper rape spot; it'd probably be really cool if he gave a fuck about that aesthetic … but it's really fucking cold in here, and it's full of goths again, although this time they're a lot less sweaty.

Being kind of a fan of fucking, and of fashion (he might not be the _first_ to admit that he's vain but he'd be in the first ten, and he'd be perfectly happy with hearing other people say it), Jepha's not quite sure why half the BDSM nights on the planet and especially this one have to be a fucking fashion parade; everyone's either wearing a year's salary in latex and a month's in make-up or doing something they evidently think makes them look like the pinnacle of style.

There seems to be more interest in looking the part than actually acting it, more people eyeballing each other like angry cats than smacking at each other with cat-o-nine-tails, and instead of taking part in some half-assed flagellation scene over one of those shiny-looking punishment benches, half the people milling about in these crowded caverns seem to be set on sneering at his fucking pants.

So maybe he's wearing cheap PVC pants from a costume shop instead of their snazzy fucking rubber-and-buckles shit, but the dress-code is stupid and he's never been able to make a mental connection between liking to get smacked around (and choked and scratched and made to grovel and…) and dressing like you think the Matrix films were the coolest thing since _The Crow_.

And he's not that fond of the smell of condoms that he wants to wear one over his entire fucking body, either. Which is apparently a major failing in someone who wants to be part of The Scene; Jepha figures that if he can spend six hours more or less tied into a pretzel while a girl in a corset fucks him with a strap-on that would put a horse to shame, he doesn't fucking need to prove himself worthy by dressing up as a contraceptive.

He _almost_ wishes he'd talked one of the others into coming. He leans back on the brick wall, rough on his bare back, swigs his mind-bendingly expensive and against all the odds _warm_ beer. Then he considers what they'd do if they were here. No, that's a bad idea. They shouldn't be here.

Dan flat out won't come to fetish nights, says they're stupid, and then does horribly accurate impressions of the kind of people who do turn up at them. The times Bert and Quinn have trailed along with him he's always wished they hadn't, because they get thrown out every fucking time: for heckling, for laughing at fat dudes in spiky jock straps, for bitching about the music too loudly (to be fair the music is consistently terrible; he doesn't see the connection between kinky sex and "dark trance" either), for puking on the rack after too many shooters, for snot-rocketing onto various cleavages, for trying to turn a pair of strap-ons into a set of bunny ears, and for generally being the assholes he knows and loves.

A girl with red cross tattoos, a black bob haircut and artful scars swooping up her arms flashes him his first smile of the night; she's cute, and he thinks he recognises her from the only non-suck entertainment so far, but she's also as clearly sub as he is and she's not stopping to say hi. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, and fuck. He watches her wander off behind some exceptionally pretty trans guy who's about his height, and turns his attention back to the drink in his hand.

Jepha finishes his beer and settles his spine against the wall, vertebrae to brickwork. Everyone who passes seems to be taller than him – girls in spike heels or just platform boots, guys as always holding court inches above his head – hundreds of sneering faces bobbing along out of reach. It's like being at the bottom of a … fucking … well. A fucking well. For fucking in.

You'd think they'd be happier-looking, surrounded by all the kinky sex; then again, he's seen what's passing for kinky sex in here and it'd make him pretty miserable too if that was all that was on offer. Boring, with a long list of things that aren't acceptable, and an even longer list of things that make him wonder how the fuck anyone ever gets off. And he came in here thinking he could get past all that ... and again, the venue charges something like $1.60 or whatever the exchange rate fucking is just to stand outside and smoke … every single time, not just one-off … even Mr. Easy-going himself here thinks that's pulling some impressive shit.

He rubs the back of his own head, because there's looking like no chance anyone's going to do it for him, and the pleasant tingle of short hairs going the wrong way sends a shiver through his back muscles, pulling them tight over the brickwork. So a scrape up his back accompanies the tingle in his scalp, and that's the start of something, the start of something. Nice.

Too bad no one's going to finish it for him. Okay, maybe if he looks a bit harder:

Jepha scans the room from where he's standing, and amid the beery blurs picks out a hostile expression with no discernable features attached to it. Okay.

Cold, blue lights, expensive beer, shitty venue – Jepha plops the beer bottle on the nearest surface, which turns out to be a somewhat angry fat woman's cleavage; he apologises, but she's already storming off – shitty crowd, shitty acts, shitty dress code, and what looks like no fucking chance of getting laid here by anyone he'd let lay hands, paddle, rope, or whatever on him.

Fuck this, he's going to bed.

Outside is bizarrely warmer than inside – or perhaps Jepha's just drunk a little more than he was anticipating – and shirts are complicated, and fuck it. He tucks his t-shirt into the waistband of his pants like a construction worker, tucks his hands into his armpits, and waits.

The taxi driver (when he finally shows up in the dingy tunnel under the railway bridge) is full of words about something Jepha neither knows nor cares about, some … a … "crossrail", and Jepha can't work out from the guy's accent where he's from or whether he thinks this "crossrail" is a good thing or a bad thing. He just makes the appropriate "mm" noises and tries to sound like he knows what the fuck's going on.

He's half asleep and irritably horny by the time he gets to their hotel room; the right sort of mood to fall asleep jerking off to the thought of hands around his throat. The right sort of mood to wake up pissed off in a few hours with morning wood and a sense of groundless urgency, too, but what the fuck ever.

The corridor's unusually quiet; the guys are probably still running up a bill in the hotel bar, which means he's got a week or two of Quinn trying to borrow money from him to look forward to. Or they're asleep – Jepha goes to check his watch before he remembers he's not wearing it and checks his phone instead; two in the morning. Unlikely they're asleep yet, Quinn's congenitally incapable of sleep before 3am and of letting anyone else sleep when he's awake. So they're in the bar, throwing down shots and making faces at each other and dancing like total, total idiots. For a minute he considers joining them.

Then again, it takes Jepha three goes with the fucking key card to get the door open, and he can't work out if he's drunker than he realised or just tired, or if the key card is a fucking motherfucker and the Regent Hotel is also a motherfucker. If he thinks about it a little harder, the carpet is also a motherfucker, and so are his feet. It's possible that air and light are motherfuckers, too, but that's when he gets the right combination of keycard and handle and –

The door opens, Jepha nearly trips over his own foot in the dark, and –

"Get his legs," says an indistinct voice and he's barely able to draw breath before he's tackled to the ground, smacked onto his stomach, and something that feels and smells like a hotel pillowcase is pulled over his head.

Jepha pants on the floor as someone twists his arms up behind his back; between mouthfuls of cotton and the giddying thump of his drunk-ass heart he tries to take stock of the situation. The drama, (the trauma, the whatever-a, the part of his brain that spends too much time listening to Bert supplies for him), has his pulse racing more than any damn thing that happened in the club, but in the same fucking way. That's fucked up. Then someone switches on the light.

He relaxes a little – the first rush of adrenaline over, it's obvious this is just his fucktard bandmates playing a practical joke. Quite apart from being able to smell Bert's lanolin-y hair and Dan's noxious feet even through a weed-smoked pillowcase (the latter can permeate solid stone walls, Dan's feet are practically a chemical weapon), the giggling gives it away somewhat. He'd be disappointed but he's not actually fucking insane, thank you, and there's a difference between jerking off to abduction-and-rape fantasies and really and truly finding himself tied up in the back of a van; Bert giggling and Quinn's cigarette-laced sweat make fun out of danger. That's how it goes.

"Get up." Dan's voice in his ear, half-snickering, half-threatening, has an annoying but instant effect; Jepha feels something stir in his belly. Orders. Oh god.

"I _can't_," he points out, puffing the pillowcase out in front of him with each word. "You've got my – _ow_ –"

And Dan pulls upward on his twisted-back wrist, forcing Jepha to his feet. The something in Jepha's stomach gives another sick-happy squirm and he can smell his own sweat as it prickles his armpits.

"Don't _do_ that," Jepha whines, heating the inside of the heavy cotton case with his own pissed off, beery breath.

"You'd sound so much more convincing if you didn't get a boner every time," Dan rests his chin on Jepha's shoulder, body heat along his back, and he's annoyingly right; in the damp and salty darkness of his pants, Jepha's nursing a semi-on already. Mostly Dan's fucking fault, too. "You have a bony boner made of bone. Or wood. Wooden bone."

"It's … fear … wood?" Jepha tries, standing perfectly still. He wishes he had radar. Finding where Bert and Quinn are when Dan's distracting him with proximity is not easy and he needs to know if he has to flinch away from a sudden missile. It's not that he minds, exactly, but … there is something mood-killing about being hit in the stomach with a dirty sneaker, and Bert will fucking throw shoes if he feels in any way bored by proceedings. "Fear … wood," Jepha repeats with a little more confidence.

"There's no such thing," Bert says – distance puts him on one of the beds. "We looked on the internet and the internet says you're a dirty fucking liar."

"Good boy scouts don't tell lies," Dan says, his index finger rubbing a gentle arc on the skin of Jepha's painfully twisted arm. "And bad boy scouts don't tell lies about sex."

"Fuck you," he sighs. It's meant as admonition but it comes out slightly too breathy.

"Excellent idea," Dan says like he only just thought of it himself and like Jepha hasn't been able to feel Dan's semi-on getting less semi against his back the whole time. He also says it like a cartoon character from off Nickelodeon or something and that's so horribly inappropriate that Jepha doesn't know whether to be grossed out or impressed that he's still horny in spite of it.

"I don't wanna fuck him," Quinn protests – closer than Bert, opposite side, probably inspecting the window. "I don't know where he's _been_."

Jepha bridles at this, indignant. He's not fucking easy … well, all right, he sort of is, but he's not unchoosy, well, okay, he occasionally - but he's not that much of a… maybe it's time to stop digging.

"He's wearing PVC-ass pants," Bert observes, like no one can tell what Jepha is and isn't wearing, "Where do you _think_ he's been, Quinnery Fuckass?"

"Pervert Club!" Quinn says it like he's saying Fight Club or something.

"The first rule of pervert club is dress like a motherfucking goth-ass homo," Bert confirms. "The second rule of pervert club is Jepha's a skank. The third rule of pervert club is why is he back here so early."

Jepha's about to make a face – pointless with a pillowcase over his head but he's going to fucking express himself anyhow – but Dan jerks his arm up again until he grimaces instead. "Ow."

"He's back early and with no bruises," Dan says, and for all that he sounds like he's talking to Bert and Quinn, Jepha knows from the bony chin digging into his shoulder and the way Dan's hands tighten and shift on his wrist that he's the one being addressed here. "Awww. Jepha didn't find _dirty_ love in Pervert Club."

"Your mom wasn't there," Jepha says half-heartedly. His balls are cooking in these fucking pants, marinated in his own sweat, and the boner's not making him any more comfortable.

There's a movement in the air in front of him, Jepha holds his breath involuntarily, trying to figure out what's going on as his heart plays the bridge from _Paralyzed_ on his ribcage. He shouldn't be half freaking out, half horny about the potential for unforeseen violence, probably, but Jepha's long since given up on making sense of his sex drive. Someone – size of hand says 'Bert' – trails fingers down his chest unexpectedly.

"Hi," Bert says, his voice unusually low. Jepha can picture intent blue eyes narrowed in focus as he first flinches from the unseen touch and then relaxes into it.

"Hello."

The next thing he feels is a hard slap on his left pec, just grazing his nipple with the sharp and stinging tips of Bert's fingers; Jepha breathes more deeply than he has been and leans back into Dan. His arm's a dull throb now that he has the tingle of a fresh slap to concentrate on.

"Hi, Bert," Jepha corrects himself as the soft, small hand returns to stroking his solar plexus.

"Say 'thank you'," Dan instructs, breath hot against the pillowcase, right by Jepha's head again.

"Thank you."

"Thank you _Bert_," Bert says, and the vicious flick to Jepha's slapped nipple comes as less of a shock after that; warmth spreads pinkly from it and Bert swears under his breath, having clearly forgotten again that nipple piercings plus high speed add up to a sore finger. His amusement is quickly curtailed by Bert digging blunt fingernails into his belly; Jepha makes a vowel sound inside the pillowcase and his crotch gets warmer and firmer.

"Thankyoubert," he mutters.

"Good boy," Dan says sweetly, right in his ear. Jepha might, under other circumstances, arch his eyebrows and point out that he's quite a lot older than Dan and Dan might want to reconsider that _boy_, but realistically he's never going to, because the words _good boy_ and, ahem, well, _good dog_ do tend to do things to him. Like make his mouth hang open and his hips jerk.

Bert's fingernails – eight points of vicious pain – make a blunt-ended heart on his lower belly.

"Wait," Jepha blurts. To his surprise, Bert relaxes his grip on Jepha's abdomen and there's a breathy silence behind him as Dan's hands soften just a little on his wrists. "You … uh. You're going to, um, do it properly this time, right?"

Behind him, Dan stifles a laugh on the back of his neck.

"What was wrong with last time?" Quinn sounds unduly haughty, and closer than he was before. A finger pokes Jepha in the nipple, a _hey buddy you looking for trouble_ poke rather than a sexy-times poke. It will be, Jepha reflects, a cold motherfucker of a day in hell when his band-mates can concentrate on sex for as long as they can concentrate on, say, videogames, music, and bickering. "We tied you up, we tied you up good. Whine whine whine blah blah Jepha's never happy."

Jepha sighs, puffing the pillowcase out in front of his face. "Yeah, _where_?"

"Bitch bitch moan whine complain blah blah," Quinn says with more emphasis. "Jepha can't make up his mind wah wah wah."

"I think," Dan says into the back of Jepha's head, his lips moving against the pillowcase, against Jepha's hair, "maybe this time not just running off and leaving him there, that's a better idea. Y'know. Maybe that."

Bert's giggle spikes high and distinct.

"And no writing _man pussy_ on my ass, possibly?" Jepha adds, as Dan dips his head to kiss the back of his neck through the pillowcase. "It's not a pussy."

Bert's tone is dismissive; Jepha can almost see him making that _flim-flam_ movement with his hand. "Don't get all pissy about, about, about –"

"Words," Quinn says helpfully.

"That's not what I was going to _say_, Quinn."

"Oh you were going to use a bigger word, fucking … fuck off. I don't care."

Jepha sighs, and Dan's thumb strokes his wrist. Quinn and Bert can bicker for hours and he'll have no choice but to stand here and listen to another argument about what Bert was going to say and whether or not Quinn is actually psychic or if Bert's just really predictable and if Bert totally knew Quinn was going to say that because he, Bert, is actually more fucking psychic than Quinn, followed by a plea to Jepha to determine which of them is more psychic, and then … then there will be no sex.

But the next thing he hears isn't _stop telling me you know what I'm going to say_ but the infinitely more welcome, "Get on your knees and open your mouth, Jepha, why are you still standing the fuck up?"

He's about to say, "because I can't move," but Dan makes a liar of him by tugging downwards on his arms, making it impossible to stay standing. He hits the carpet in slow motion, his arms burning in his shoulders as they twist further and further up behind him, bending him over his own ribcage. Jepha opens his mouth more to groan in pain than because Bert said so; the main thing is, he's on his knees with his mouth open. Just like he was told. Orders, ffffuck.

The shape that nudges his half-open mouth insistently has to be a dick.

There's no quibbling about that: it's dick-shaped, dick-sized, and body-warmth. It's likely Quinn's, because Jepha's not that bad at telling sizes with his mouth that he can't distinguish between Bert (small and perfectly formed), Dan (suffocatingly large), and Quinn (average), but it feels weird, sheathed in this impromptu and inefficient condom of cotton. The whole pillowcase distorts around his head as he opens his mouth obediently, and hot fabric soaks up his saliva.

"Ow, this is fucking scratchy," Quinn's voice complains, confirming it.

Bert snorts. "Like you never ever jerked off through your shorts."

"Blowjobs aren't meant to be scratchy," Quinn sulks.

"Only you," Dan mutters, and Jepha feels his long fingers stroke gently, encouragingly over his wrists and forearms even as he twists them further up. "Only Quinn."

"Yeah," Bert echoes, "Only Quinnery-QuinnFace would bitch about getting head."

Jepha struggles to breathe through his nose as a mouthful of soggy cotton, deformed and stretched by Quinn's dick, hits the back of his throat and the sensation of suffocation sets off one of those tiny fireworks displays in his brain that's unconnected to his dick but makes him just that little bit hornier all the same. _More_, his brain supplies unhelpfully.

Nimble little fingers stroke the dip between his collarbones and Jepha leans forward until the cotton-swathed tip of Quinn's dick hits the back of his throat, trying to push Bert into squeezing his trachea; it doesn't work.

Bert's hands move. They vanish somewhere else, somewhere, not touching him, and whatever else Jepha's good at, audible whining through a mouthful of dick when he can hardly breathe is not really on the list. So there's no complaining about it.

There's a short, breathy inhalation over his head and Jepha thinks, _he's jerking Quinn off_. There's only so much anyone can do through a pillowcase, and Bert's got magic hands. He pulls harder, turns his fucking mouth into the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner.

Now one of Dan's hands leaves him, and Jepha squirms on his heels. This isn't _fair_, they can't just abandon him like this, they can't –

Quinn makes a slightly deeper breathy noise and Jepha concentrates on the job at, at, at, _mouth_. Bert's hand smacks into Jepha's lips a couple of times, and someone's hand – maybe Quinn's, maybe Bert's – grabs his hair through the pillowcase, holding him steady, jerking him in time until his brain feels like it's rattling back and forth in his skull, and Jepha lets his mind float free in a sea of _no control_. All he can do is what he's told to. It's beautiful.

There's a noise like someone got hit, but Jepha knows the sound of Quinn's orgasms now as intimately as he knows his own, and the pillowcase gets hotter and wetter, and Jepha sucks harder, harder, like he's going to pull Quinn's come right through the fabric and into his stomach.

But Quinn's pulling back and there are noises, kissing noises, giggling noises, and Dan's one solitary hand is urging him to his feet. Jepha burns from the mouth to the balls. No one is fucking touching him and that's all wrong. Something not right here, even if it's just that he's not getting what he fucking wants; Jepha tenses up.

Cold, heavy bracelets hit both of Jepha's wrists simultaneously. He could worm. He could worm right out of this right now, but he's not gonna. Why spoil his fun? He's not gonna. Not when Dan's got him within easy grabbing reach and what are almost certainly cuffs ready to click closed –

The snap of metal in metal confirms the hypothesis; those are handcuffs. It's not exactly like he was ever in any doubt about that, but now it's certain; Jepha offers up a silent prayer to gods he doesn't really believe in that Dan remembers where he put the key because if there's one more incident with the fire service having to bust him out, he's going to start developing a thing for firemen. Uniforms, rescue fantasies, handcuffs, and already being horny? He's most of the fucking way there already.

The cuffs are cold and too heavy to be novelty cheap Anne Summers things (of course he remembers the name of the store, it's a sex store), more like real police cuffs. Jepha sits very, very still while Dan clutches his elbows, pulls down on the cuffs until they bite the back of his hands. So that he knows they're on tight, firm, and solid. Two heavy bracelets binding his arms together, and unless Jepha's magically become a contortionist in the last week or so, he's not getting out of them; he knows that's for his benefit. So he knows.

"Get up on the bed," Bert says, poking him in the chest.

Jepha stays still and waits a second in the hope that logic will catch up with Bert's brain, but it's unfounded optimism as always. Bert's brain can outrun any kind of rationality like fucking, like the Roadrunner and Wil E. Coyote. He shuts his eyes against the weird light from the inside of the case, and says, "Where is the bed, Bert?" in the same voice he usually uses to ask for his shoes back when Quinn and Bert are having what he's come to think of as _enthusiastic male bonding sessions_ with them.

He doesn't get an answer, but what he does get is an alarming change in altitude, very fast, as someone – presumably Dan – scoops him up by the knees and armpits and more or less tosses him into the unknown. It has to be Dan. No other motherfucker in their stupid band can just hurl him like this.

Going limp – or as limp as he can right now – is usually the best response to unexpected trips through the air at Dan's hands (and he's had a few); he bounces gracelessly once or twice but nothing too violent and bone-breaking happens. Jepha draws an uncertain breath and shuffles into a kneeling position, pushed and pulled by two pairs of not-exactly-helpful hands.

"Hey, Jepha," Bert says, apparently armed with some important information.

"Hey?"

"You're on the bed now."

"Really."

"Yup."

"One more thing," Dan says, somewhere close by his side but not actually touching him. Jepha holds his breath involuntarily. Waiting. Waiting for an order. "Those shitty PVC pants are going to have to go."

_They're not all that shitty_, Jepha thinks in weak protest, but he knows Dan doesn't mean "permanently". Just … now.

"Uh, how?"

Because he's pretty sure that kneeling, blindfolded (sort of), with his hands cuffed behind his back, it's going to take a real long time for him to worm out of his pants on his own. He can probably do it – Jepha's a freaking clothing Houdini especially when he's drunk some (once he woke up wearing pants but no underwear despite having gone out wearing borrowed jockey shorts underneath) – but it will take hours and with the ache and burn of an unloved boner in his crotch he's not sure he wants that kind of endless teasing friction.

The answer comes in the form of hands twisting his pants studs undone, one by one; rough hands, he discovers as the bottom edge of one brushes against his belly in the process. Hot, rough, huge hands undressing him. Dan's hands.

Jepha takes a moment to contemplate the situation. Or to savour it.

Twisting and wriggling his way blindly out of the PVC pants turns out not to be so hard with Dan and Bert and occasionally Quinn there to guide him; Quinn's (he's assuming it's Quinn, it might be Bert) impatient tugs and frequent pinches notwithstanding, he's naked as a baby … with a pillowcase on its head … in only a minute or two, and his heart's racing again.

Racing against the effort of undressing, against the uncertainty, against the sensation of all these hands on him, racing all his blood down to his fucking dick so he can hardly think. His heart's racing; all this sensation, all this waiting, all these orders and all the not knowing what happens next, has his heart racing.

Because, fuck, with Bert in the mix it's entirely possible what's about to happen is not so much sexy times as "snail racing along Jepha's back" times or "paint Jepha's dick to look like a snake" times. Things get more than a little unpredictable with him around, and Jepha wouldn't have it any other way, but _he fucking wants laying right fucking now_.

Dan – huge hands, huge hands – slaps him in thigh. "Get up. Get on your knees."

He rolls, kicks, pushes, and climbs back to his knees he doesn't know how. Just keeps twisting, every touch of the bed sheets, every touch of his own skin against his dick driving him a tiny little bit more insane until he's back up on his knees, legs apart, waiting.

Jepha sits back on his thighs. It doesn't matter how much he loves these guys (and that's a fuck of a lot) or how much he trusts them (not a huge amount, especially with money), it's not humanly possible to sit blindfolded with his balls on display and not flinch every so often. Even though he knows, now, what's happening next, perhaps even because he knows.

He even twitches when Dan (huge hand) pats him on the leg and sits down behind him on the bed. Small fingers walk up his inner leg and he barely has time to brace himself before Bert flicks him in the scrotum _very hard_.

Jepha would fold up in the middle but Dan's holding him straight, hands back on his wrists, gripping tight. Dan's fingers are natural handcuffs, hot and flexible but firm, firm and holding him just below the real, cold metal cuffs.

And then they leave him, leave his wrists, skating like lost explorers or some shit, over his hip bones, over his crunched-up belly, into his crotch. They turn and slip past his dick without even fucking touching it, without fucking touching it, and brush up against his balls. Cradle his balls like they're delicate and tender little things, which they are, but … Jesus.

Dan's hand is a rough cushion around his scrotum, lightly squeezing his nads, just enough pressure to makeJepha need to open his mouth. Just enough to make his chest tight in anticipation, while Bert's fingers scratch lazily back and forth around his dick ring. Fuck.

He tips his head back over his shoulders like that'll somehow help him get enough air into his lungs through the fucking fabric, and nearly head-butts Dan. Dan's wrist shifts over his hipbone and his hand contracts like a fucking, ahaha, fucking nutcracker and Jepha's balls send tiny little pain signals like fireflies to his brain. Fizz, fizz. The only word he can get out is a sharp hiss of "Jeees_ussssss_."

"I wonder if Jesus liked people flicking his dick ring," Bert muses, doing just that to illustrate his point. Jepha chomps on one of his snakebites to stifle the _unnnhhhh_ that accompanies it and a second lance of pain shoots from his tooth as it connects with metal.

"Why would Jesus have a dick ring?" Quinn mumbles. His voice is lower than Jepha's knees and he sounds spectacularly drunk and post-orgasmic and Jepha wants to kiss him; drunk-Quinn kisses are the inverse of drunk-Bert's, all dry and hot and teasing instead of slobbery and thorough and probing. He wonders what they'd be like through a pillowcase. He wonders if Quinn's going to get up off the fucking floor and let him find out. He wonders wha – _ow_.

Dan gives his balls a friendly squeeze, a friends-with-unusual-benefits-ly squeeze, and the fireflies dance up Jepha's spine, settling sparks on his brain. "Pay attention," Dan says, mock-stern, "or I'll _make_ you pay attention."

"Shitty threat," Bert objects, running a chewed and ragged fingernail over the head of his dick; Jepha's hips jerk and he tries automatically to defend himself, his arms straining against the cuffs as he hisses another "ffffff–" over his lower lip.

It's like having an electric current run through all his nerves at once, fucking horrible and – "Do that again," he says urgently, all the blood in his body heating his breath to sound pornographic.

"Maybe," Bert says flippantly, one hand resting lightly around Jepha's very very very hard dick. He'd bet the entire tour float that Bert's other hand is busy picking his nose right now; London makes for black boogers and – yep, there's a damp sticky swipe on his knee and a fingertip touches the end of his dick, God. "Ask nice."

"Please, Bert."

"Nicer than thaaaaat," Bert sing-songs.

"Please, Bert, please do that again," Jepha mutters. The sullenness of his tone may be a little undermined by his red-hot skin and the way his thighs are twitching; Dan's hand tightens just a little more and Jepha ends his plea with a groan from the depths of his scrotum.

There's a pause the length of Jepha's entire patience, in which his heart beats twice, and Bert's virtually serrated nail scrapes back over the tender velvet skin beside Jepha's dick ring.

This time there's no keeping back the sound: it hijacks Jepha's throat while he's still occupied with the whole-body frisson, slides out between his teeth in a harsh wet exhalation, "Ssssssonofa_bitch_." Jepha's biceps shake, and Dan's free hand tugs idly on the handcuffs.

"What does whiny whiny never satisfied Jepharee want _now_?" Quinn's voice drifts up from the floor, drunk, derisive, and just a little horny. It's there in the modulation.

Jepha knows, actually, what Mr. Apparently Insatiable Howard wants now, he wants a dick in his ass, god-fucking-damn it, before his prostate explodes from lack of attention and kills them all. Communicating this while Bert's tapping his dick ring to the tune of _Jingle Bells_ and Dan's providing a scrotum-squeezing backing track, however, proves difficult.

"I –"

"Yeeeeees?" Dan moves his thumb; the base of his thumb presses into Jepha's balls and they smush up against each other, move round each other. Jepha hiccups, not sure whether he's in pain or just confused until Bert flicks his dick ring again.

"–needyouto –" Jepha chokes on the next words as an unexpected hand lands on his knee.

"Whole sentences, motherfucker, do you speak them?" Quinn slurs, slightly closer, somewhere near his thigh. The hypocrisy of this is not lost on Jepha but alas his ability to point it out is.

"Fuckingfuckingfuckme," Jepha gnaws the words out in a high-speed battery of sound. He's not sure it's necessarily coherent but it's definitely loud enough. Forming words is … not easy with his brain so very, very concentrated on his groin.

"Nuh-uh," Dan says cheerfully, one he's interpreted Jepha's babblings. "Not sure you want it enough. Maybe if you ask nicer."

It's pretty much clear what Dan means by that, but Jepha's still opening his mouth to say something, anything at all, when he decides to clarify. Just in case Jepha's not up to speed, or to speed him up, or just to be a fucking asshole, it's not certain.

"Beg for it," Dan suggests, and – his mouth close to Jepha's ear, close enough he knows no one but him can hear the words turning his blood to molten lava in his veins and his brain to hot liquid want in his skull – he adds real quiet, "Beg for it like a good dog should."

It's kinda difficult to say anything let alone beg when his mouth's dry and his head's whirling from all the blood rushing to his dick, but Jepha breathes in hard and unsticks his tongue from his teeth. "Pl … please … can I … would … please … _fuck_."

Quinn's snicker drifts over him like the judgement of a sarcastic and drunken God; oh yeah, Quinn, usually the least articulate and most verbally ridiculous person on earth, has to be just loving his transformation into a thick-tongued retard incapable of uttering the right selection of words to make sense. Bastard bastard fucker.

"Mmm?" Dan taps him on the sternum, twice, _bambam_, the beginnings of something, and Bert rubs – just rubs – the ball of a finger, a thumb, over the head of Jepha's dick. It's not exactly an aid to articulation.

"Ffffffuck," Jepha jerks, and the cuffs catch his skin. And anyway, it's close to what he wants to say. "Fuck. Me. Please. I want." It's almost there on the tip of his tongue. Unfortunately the tip of his tongue is between his teeth, and he bites down on it hard when Bert's small, sharp hand swings a vicious slap into his face.

Cheek stinging, Jepha leans forward and drools onto the cotton. Fucker.

"I want I want I want," Quinn mumbles. He is apparently speaking on Bert's behalf, and though he can't see them Jepha can easily picture the looks passing between them as Bert squeezes his cheeks through the pillowcase, "I waaaaaaant fucking want want, whiny bitch. Who brought you up, wolves?"

"Manners," Bert agrees, releasing Jepha's face only to return to flicking him in the nipple. "Mann_ers_."

"Ask nice," Dan confirms, pulling back on his shoulders under Jepha's head jerks back. "Say it."

"Pleasesomeonefuckmyassplease."

"There," Bert says, flicking him in the other nipple so hard Jepha's chest feels like it's going to cave in, "that wasn't so hard."

Quinn's hyenaish cackles are predictable and almost welcome. He chokes out a, "It is _now_," and thumps the mattress so hard that Jepha bounces.

"Up," Bert says, slapping him in the stomach. "Up, up. Up."

"What?" Jepha doesn't intend for it to come out fucked up and druggy-sounding, but his lips aren't at their most obedient right now and his tongue is positively mutinous.

"Up," Bert repeats as if the problem was volume, and Jepha winces. "STAND UP ON THE MOTHERFUCKING BED MOTHERFUCKER."

Which at least brings some clarity.

Jepha finds it a little easier to scramble to his feet from his knees, even though the mattress isn't exactly the most stable of surfaces to sway about on, dipping under his weight, and someone else's too, and generally throwing his balance out so he has to keep bending his knees at uncertain intervals; again, every movement is a skin-soft hell against his dick and every movement means he has to sink his teeth as firmly into his lower lip as his feet into the mattress, but he gets there. He fucking gets there.

Then the whole mattress bounces and flops beneath him so bad that he almost falls, only two sets of hands grabbing at his calves stop him from going over, and he nearly collapses over himself anyhow, and there's a hot warm weight against his feet, beside his feet.

"Um," Jepha offers.

"Relax," Bert commands, which doesn't make him feel terribly relaxed, especially not with someone picking up his foot kinda forcefully and tugging until he almost loses his balance again. "Just siiiit back and relaaaax …"

"Sit back slowly," Dan suggests, and someone yanks on his legs.

Someone else very helpfully slaps him, hard, in the back of his thigh where the leg turns into ass, and as Jepha's just beginning to crouch down, his feet unsteady and his mind hot and heavy, his arms out of commission and his eyes covered, he still _uhhh_s at the force and the sting.

He squats lower, his muscles aching with the slowness of the descent, and there's another red-hot burning _smack_ on his skin. He rocks on his feet but doesn't fall; _uuuhhhh_ comes trickling out again. This crazy-dangerous game has to be Bert's doing, he's the only one with the imagination for such inventive cruelty … there's another _smack_ of fingers catching him right in the tensed muscles, and that's got to hurt Bert, too, the violence of the swing and the … firmness of his muscles and … _smack_ … Jepha bites his lip and tries to go down to his knees slow, slower, the body heat of someone, someone between his legs rising up like a blast from an oven. Oh. Fuck.

His thighs burn double – once-over from holding his weight at such an awkward angle, and once from the spanking. They're probably bright red to go with the tingling (Jepha promises himself he'll check out the welts in the morning, maybe play with them a bit, worry at them until they're pretty and red again); he tries to steady himself but it's hard like this and hot thighs between his shins make it harder to concentrate, and the lube up his ass, and …

"Sit back slowly," says Bert's voice, and a hand clasps his right buttcheek, pulling it away from the left. Jepha does as he's told, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep any too-throaty groans from hitting the air as he – oh yeah, oh guh-fucking-God – stretches slowly around a fucking wide dick and his thighs tremble, tremble with the effort of going slow.

He knows it's Dan, then, knows he's fucking, being fucked by Dan. Feeling so stretched out of shape he thinks he might pass out is a Dan thing, and one of Dan's huge, cat-tongue rough hands cups his thigh, holding his shaking muscles steady. "Ffffff," Jepha hisses over his teeth, as he nearly loses his composure and thumps down into Dan's balls. But that's … that'll just fucking fuck everything up, so he inhales hard and digs his knees into the mattress and keeps going down slow.

"I love my life," Quinn says contemplatively, somewhere in what feels like the distance. "Live porn, Bert, look." Jepha's other buttcheek gets pinched, then dragged in the other direction. He gasps and inhales a mouthful of soggy pillowcase.

It's when his asscheeks touch the very tops of Dan's thighs, touch his hip … muscles… that Jepha loses his grip and his composure and his fucking balance all at once, slumping down hard, a groan fired out between his lips as he comes close to doing them both a fucking injury. His thighs shake again.

"It's like watching mountain-climbing or some shit," Quinn says in a dreamy, drug-drunk-fucked voice. Jepha's mind still manages to throw up the image of him leaning on his elbows and watching every fucking thing like it's TV. Right up until Dan shifts on the bed, pushing up into him, and knocks all coherent thought out of his head.

"FFfuck," Jepha gasps, warm to the core and barely there in his mind, and Dan pushes up again, very gently. "JesusfuckgoslowI'mgonna…"

"Isn't that the point?" Quinn asks, and presumably it's Quinn that flicks him in the thigh too. "Hurry uuuuup."

Dan's hands claps Jepha's thighs, pulling him down as his hips push up, and Jepha feels honest to god like his brain's being pushed the fuck out of his mouth. How there's even room in his body for this he doesn't know, he feels like he's gonna fucking explode any minute, any minute.

"Putyourhand –" but the words aren't making it out and he's half-choking on the pillowcase as each in-breath sucks it into his mouth, his nostrils, and that's just getting him hotter, hotter. Then there's – that must be Bert's hand, the fingernails are too sharp to be Quinn's and Dan's hands are still on his thighs – a hand, a hand on his dick, oh thank fucking god, a hand on his dick twisting and pulling and jerking him off too hard to be good, too hard to get him off normally but right now any touch is good touch, and _fuck_ – it –

"Nrgh," Jepha announces, as Bert's hand keeps going through the come, through his orgasm, keeps going until his thighs are sticky and his dick is drowning.

When he can think about anything other than his dick again, Dan's hands are rubbing his thighs slowly, a kind but pointed 'keep moving, fucker' signal as the hips Jepha's resting on move more insistently. He tries to keep pace with them, tries to ride Dan like a mechanical fucking bull, but all he can do is hang on while Quinn and Bert giggle relentlessly at his discomfort.

Dan's hands tighten on his thighs, pull him down hard, and Jepha's every muscle clenches; Dan slowly goes still beneath him, like a clockwork toy winding down, and Jepha can hear his breath, loud and harsh, as his hands begin to loosen their grip.

There's a soft, wettish silence, and the pillowcase jerks from Jepha's head as suddenly as it went on: he finds himself staring at Bert at close quarters. The hotel room lights are bright, Bert's hair is the usual crazy mess and his eyes are dilated to little saucers of black.

"Hey," Bert says, tapping Jepha on the lips with his forefinger. "Check it out. No fat chicks in rubber here."

It hurts to double up laughing when he's sitting like this, but Jepha can't help himself; he wheezes, bangs his face on Bert's shoulder, and giggles into his collarbone. There are no fat chicks in rubber here.


End file.
